


a mal tiempo, buena cara

by raggirare



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, POV Second Person, Post-Recall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 07:57:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8196784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raggirare/pseuds/raggirare
Summary: Overwatch was the goal. It had only ever been Overwatch, never Blackwatch. Blackwatch (or the majority of it, at least) had followed you into the claws of Talon after the entire system had eroded around them, and the ones who hadn’t…Well.Thus was your current predicament.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by something I saw floating around Tumblr, in which Reaper wants revenge on Overwatch but the Blackwatch boys are still rooted in his heart and he can't not look out for them when they Fuck Up.
> 
> Second person POV for Reaper because I needed to try something new to get me excited about writing again.

Overwatch was the goal. It had only ever been Overwatch, never Blackwatch. Blackwatch (or the majority of it, at least) had followed you into the claws of Talon after the entire system had eroded around them, and the ones who hadn’t…

Well.

Thus was your current predicament.

A sea of red streaked with milk and antifreeze. Inhuman limbs peppered with gunfire scattered amongst smouldering flesh, and armour torn to shreds. A metal visor, misshapen and miscoloured, its neon green eyeshield shattered beyond repair. A plasma sword broken in two and another discarded, an empty six-shooter with the barrel ejected nearby. Shuriken litter the expanse of the warehouse, their lights still flickering on and off almost rhythmically. A serape in tatters, darker than its usual red, stained deeper with blood. A single spur, against all odds, clean enough to reflect the dim moonlight sneaking in through clouded windows.

And the hat. That damn stupid hat. Crushed and trodden, stained with red on the brim and green pooling in the creases, and the decorative band torn off, lost in the mayhem.

To say your own heart drops would feel a lie. You’re not sure you even have a heart any more. But you feel _something_ drop like a phantom pain and worry builds like bile. There’s a crash and a clatter as you drop the guns from your clawed grip and exchange them for the hat at your feet. There’s little care or remorse as your heavy boot steps end up muffled by the lifeless corpses you walk on, masked eyes focusing only on a pair of bodies.

You’d been worried, when you first intervened, that the still, mutilated bodies had lost all life, and it had fuelled blind anger that prevented you from checking for signs of the contrary. Revenge had controlled you like it always did these days, unrelenting until every standing man was crippled and soulless. 

Not that the new revelation that at least one of them had found the will to move themselves to the other is enough to make you regret what you did. It gives you an opportunity. You hide it behind a petty excuse; _the last thing those clinging to life want is to see Death_. You’ve consumed plenty of souls to last days even with such a manifestation, so you don’t hold back and you call upon the memories you save for the impossible nights alone where you feel human.

The mask fades and everything else peels away in wisps of smoke. New clothing replaces it, reminiscent of old, and you find nostalgia in being able to see the world without anything obstructive. You don’t allow himself to enjoy it, though, and instead close the distance, and you feel your worries lessen further at the sound of a gentle crooning.

A gloved hand reaches out to place the hat onto Jesse’s head, and you slowly crouch down beside the cowboy’s body. It interrupts the crooning with a start and you use the stunned silence that follows to finally assess the two of them and take note of all the damage.

Jesse is easy. Right arm missing almost entirely, barely a few inches left from the shoulder (jagged and torn; rules out friendly fire), it’s already tied off, a makeshift tourniquet to try and ease the bleeding. It must have happened early. Bullet holes riddle flesh, clothing torn and burned in places, and a few fingers missing from a mechanical left arm. You don’t look at that arm long. There’s too many painful memories that could risk disturbing your form. Blood bathes the cowboy’s face beneath a broken nose and bruising eyes, and a glance down reveals a knife buried hilt-deep in a thigh, only a single stab wound of many.

Jesse’s skin is pale. It’s a wonder he’s even conscious.

But it all seems like nothing in comparison to the cyborg that Jesse clings to with his one arm. Both legs gone, one below the knee and one above, and an arm you’d seen picked to pieces and scattered across the floor. The one remaining arm, and parts of Genji’s chest and back, lack armour, and even the plate protecting what’s left of his organic parts has been pulled back slightly, just enough to reveal some of the inner workings (not quite enough to let everything fall out). The carbon nanotubes making up his muscles are clipped in some places and shredded in others, green and white and red life fluids all mixing as he bleeds. Much of his helmet has been forcibly removed, impatiently ripped away rather than the locks being released, and it manifests in an open wound in one cheek revealing natural teeth. Scars reopened, the metal lower jaw so rarely visible hanging loose and dislocated, synthetic strands of dark hair slicked back with the mess of green and white and red. If not for the flutter of eyelashes and muffled whimpers, you would think Genji already dead.

More dark memories of saving lives few others see as more than simple assets.

“Ga… Gabe..?” Jesse’s voice is weak, raspy and barely audible. He tries to lift his right arm to reach out to you, casts a surprised glare at it as though he’s just realising that it’s no longer there. It’s easily dismissed. “Is… that you..?”

“Yeah, _mijo_ ,” you whisper with a hand reaching out to wipe blood away from a cheek, barely pausing when Jesse flinches, his right eye searching blearily. You wonder if the cowboy hadn’t taken a flashbang too close to the face (or something worse; whatever took off with his arm). There’s blood on his face, origin indiscernible. It’s possible. “Yeah, it’s me.”

More silence. Jesse’s considering something. He relaxes after a moment and his head leans into your hand, his eyes falling closed. “We’re dead, then.” He’s already at peace with the idea of it. 

You’re not sure you’re entirely comfortable with it.

“You’re not dead, _mijo_ ,” you correct him with a chuckle, low and forced. He doesn’t call you out on it, simply lets his lips tug into a tired smile. He’s getting paler. The blood isn’t stopping. You shift your hand enough to turn your fingers, tips brushing along the shell of the cowboy’s ear. The bristle of facial hair is sharp enough to be felt through your gloves. Jesse’s grown up (he’s still just a brat you can’t let die). Eventually your fingers find what they’re searching for. The smallest of anomalies; a tiny bump embedded in cartilage like the passage of a healed-over helix piercing. A distress beacon. You briefly wonder if your own survived. You don’t linger. Instead, you shift your other hand to cup Genji’s jaw, ever careful of the flesh ripped from his cheek. It’s harder to find on the cyborg. It’s installed on the back of his skull, just in front of the locks that would normally hold his visor in place. Genji’s face is a mess (it’s moved). “I promised I would only let you two die of old age, didn’t I?”

Jesse gives you a chuckle, weak and husky and broken. He flinches again, too, when you pinch that tiny piece of technology in his ear. You murmur an apology and rub your thumb over his rough cheek when you’re confident the beacon is activated. Your other hand continues to search, and you murmur another apology in Genji’s direction when you find the device and press down. It’s enough to spark a pained whimper from the cyborg. You wonder briefly how aware he is and pet your hand over his synthetic hair, soothing, just in case he’s conscious enough to register it.

“You’re doing great, kid. You’ve gotten through worse than this before.” Memories of a body barely reminiscent of a man; more reminiscent of a young boy, innocence stripped away in fratricide. There was less of Genji then than there is now. Things are hopeful. Things could more hopeful. “Jesse, do you have any biotics?”

“No fields…” It seems to be getting harder for Jesse to form words. Harder to stay awake. You have to do something. “Used the last shot… ‘fore the grenade.” 

Grenade. Not as bad as it could have been, but that doesn’t make it good. You nod and stand and hesitate. Jesse flinches and it takes you a moment to realise he’s trying to reach for you. Trying to stop you. Your lips pull into a sad smile. You crouch, again, and reach out your hand to touch his cheek again.

“Gabe, don’t—“

“I won’t be long, _mijo_ ,” you reassure him as gently and convincingly as you can. “Talk to Genji. I’ll be right back, I promise.”

Jesse doesn’t seem convinced, not at first. He seems ready to protest again, but eventually the cowboy relents and turns his head and the crooning from earlier begins. English and Spanish and what you assume is Japanese mix together in a murmur. 

Turning your back on the scene, you’re reminded of the horror you’re surrounded by. No remorse. Your boots leave tracks in the coagulating sea of blood and crush bones beneath every step. It’s of no concern to you, though, occupied with something far more important. A hunch. It’s nothing but a hunch. You had been so blinded by your anger earlier that there had been little time to take note of details, but trusting your gut had never really led you wrong in the past. No better time to trust it than when there’s nothing else to trust.

It pays off.

You end up at the other end of the warehouse, shoving aside broken boxes and scattered supplies. There’s a body beneath it all. A drained corpse. You’d taken this one’s soul, you remember. Bitter and coppery, heavy with regrets, light with the relief of death. You’d tasted worse. You kick back the jacket with a blood-coated boot. There, slotted into holsters on the belt. Two left. It only takes a moment to crouch down and free the field containers, each fitting comfortable in a palm. They’re heavy. Full. Not the most powerful, but you know that this variety stacks. It won’t be enough to heal even one of the two agents fully, but you hope it will be enough to buy time.

What was taking that damn monkey so long?

Objective in your hands, there’s no need to search the rest of the corpses around you. Only a beeline across the warehouse floor back to where Jesse and Genji are. They’re like a beacon of light, you notice. A small field of mostly clean concrete floor, protected by the horror of what you’ve caused by some invisible ring of salt. You cross the threshold, bloody bootprints marking your trail.

All too suddenly you realise how silent it is. There’s no whimpering of pain, no jagged breathing. There’s none of Jesse’s murmuring voice. No empty words promising the world to a man who already had it. That phantom pain drops in your chest again and you rush forward, barely noticing a sharp pain in your knees when you land on them.

“Jesse?” you call, one hand slamming down a field above the men’s head. The device activates automatically. The yellow glow crawls across your body like a warm blanket. An almost distant feeling of things crawling on your skin. Nanites do nothing for you. Not anymore. But you see the effect almost immediately on the bodies in front of you. You slam the second field down, closer to you this time. It’s enough to finally stop the cowboy’s missing arm from bleeding any further. You reach a hand out, gently jostle a shoulder. Trying to get some sort of reaction. “Jesse? C’mon, _mijo_. Wake up.”

It takes a few more shakes, a few more calls of Jesse’s name, a few choice Spanish words in desperation, but eventually the cowboy responds. A groan, a whimper, then eyes peeking open.

“ _Papi_..?”

The expression on your face doesn’t get a chance to relax, falling straight into a sad smile. It’s all nothing but painful memories. Jesse hasn’t mistaken you for his father since he lost his first arm, young and stupid and gripping to life because of a mistake you had made. A part of you considers that maybe it’s not a mistake. That maybe you’d done at least one thing right in taking in this cowboy and looking after him. Looking after the cyborg, as well, as rejected as he was by the world. Those unborn children you were denied by your life choices, manifested in the form of the lives you saved, however loosely the word could be applied.

Your sons, dying in front of your eyes with nothing else you can do to help.

“I got you, _mijo_.” You hate how your voice shakes. You hate that you can’t sound confident anymore. You move. You move yourself and you move Jesse and you sit in the pool of your sons’ blood. Jesse keeps his hold tight on Genji, pulls the cyborg along as you pull the cowboy between your legs and against your chest. One of your arms wraps around Jesse and the other shifts the biotic fields closer before it reaches past Jesse and tangles fingers into synthetic hair. “ _Papi_ ’s got you both. And if either of you die, _Papi_ ’s gonna crawl down to Hell and drag you back out.”

You get a chuckle interrupted by a cough for your trouble, and dead weight leaning into you. You tighten your hold and you fill the silence with words. They mean nothing. You think nothing of them. There’s stories of old, recalling times in Blackwatch when everything had been much less complicated and the world was a little brighter. You recall pranks that Genji had talked Jesse into, and Jesse trying to teach Genji to handle a firearm. Stowing away on cargo ships to track down international dealers, catching rides on top of trains because people are still so wary of Jesse’s face. 

There’s nothing substantial in Jesse’s replies, and there’s nothing at all from Genji. Even his whimpering has stopped and you would be more worried if you couldn’t feel faint vibrations humming throughout the cyborg’s body. His systems in hibernation, you guess. The mechanics in his body shutting down everything except vitals in an attempt to preserve. You suspect the nanites are helping. You know they’re the only reason Jesse is still conscious.

The sea of blood on the concrete is completed coagulated by the time you hear the familiar sound of an Orca. It brings a pause to your words and makes you tighten your hold just briefly before you slowly start to let go. Something stops you, though. The body leaning against yours tensing and a metal hand grabbing your wrist a little too tight.

“Gabe, don’t go,” Jesse pleads, his voice still weak and quiet. “Come… Come back with us.”

It would be so easy to say yes. You’re almost tempted, if only so you can keep an eye on them. Be close to both Jesse and Genji, just long enough to make sure they recover. Then you could leave again. Or use it as a chance to get inside and destroy them all. Save Jesse and Genji, complete your mission, be free of Talon. But they would never let you. They know what you’re after. They’d kill you, or at least try, the moment they saw you. You’d kill them just as quickly if not for the need for them to help the near-corpses in your care.

“I can’t,” you finally answer. You expect that to be the end of it. Perhaps a little more pleading for you to stay a little longer.

Instead, Jesse begs, “Then take us with you.”

“I _can’t_.” You don’t hesitate this time. You don’t need to think. You had already considered that but you can’t do that to them. You can’t put Jesse in a mess worse than Deadlock, not when he’s finally in charge of his life. _Dios_ knows what Talon would do to Genji. “I can’t do that to you both.”

The sound of the Orca is still there, thrumming in the background. The engine’s aren’t active anymore. It must be hovering, or in standby. Voices begin to pick up. You don’t have long. You silently urge for Jesse to take his own weight. He resists for a moment before he caves and shifts his weight forward, closer to Genji.

“We’ll… see you again… right?” Jesse doesn’t look at you, and his tone is more than just weak now. Sad, perhaps. You feel an apology on the tip of your tongue. You swallow it back down like a pill. “You… saved us. But Overwatch…”

“You were never Overwatch,” you find it all too easy to admit your intentions as you free yourself and move to your feet. Easier still when Jesse isn’t looking at you. “You’ll never be Overwatch. Not to them.”

Jesse remains silent. You worry for a moment, but he breaks it with a sigh.

“Blackwatch always looks out… for their own…” It comes out like a prayer, recited rather than meant. You wonder if Jesse believes it. If he ever believed it. You wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t. Deadlock had never been the sort built on loyalty.

You let your appearance slip, nostalgic uniform misting around your body and reforming into a cloak. The mask reappears, too, just in time for Jesse to look back over his shoulder. To look back at you.

“What… about you?” Jesse asks, unflinching at your appearance. Perhaps he expected it. Perhaps he always knew. Perhaps he’s simply lost too much blood to care. 

“You don’t owe me anything, Jesse,” your voice rasps, echoing more in this form. “What you tell them is up to you.” It doesn’t change anything if they know who you are. It doesn’t change the fact that you are Death and your mission will end up completed. “But I will always look out for you, and for Genji. I will not let anything happen to either of you.”

Jesse considers your words, and then he nods. Your heads turn towards the door at the far end. Voices growing louder. Unmistakeable in origin. There’s nothing left to be said.

You take one last look, and then everything is mist, ghosting away to safety.

—

The silence in the medical bay has always been heavy, but it feels so much worse for Jesse now than it ever has done before. The weight in his one hand is heavy, too, and he has to look at Genji’s face to check the cyborg is even still conscious. He is, what is left of him, with his eyes staring through the wall opposite the end of the bed he's confined to.

Jesse feels his other arm itch and there’s the same phantom pains he’s been feeling since the warehouse. It’s just the healing, he’d been told, and it’s harder to ignore when he doesn’t have the weight of a prosthetic to replace the missing limb. It’ll take a while, he’d been told. It was hard to get new prosthetics when Overwatch wasn’t even technically around anymore.

Harder still when they had half a cyborg to replace as well.

“What do we do?” Genji’s voice rasps, quiet, his synthetic voice box barely functioning. Angela had done what she could with their limited supplies to ensure they were both at least comfortable. Genji was still bed-bound, though, with only a single functioning limb. His hand squeezed Jesse’s and Jesse squeezed in return, metal against metal. It’s comforting only because it’s all that they have.

The question hangs in the air, Jesse chewing on the inside of his cheek as he considers it. He closes his eye, clenches it shut. Opens them again and silently curses the way his vision is still off. Two weeks later and he still isn’t used to having lost vision in his right eye. He doesn’t want to consider what it’s done to his shooting.

“He saved us,” he breaks the silence with the obvious. Turns his head so he can see Genji’s face better and finds the cyborg looking back at him. They’ve had this conversation before. They both know what he’ll say, because it’s the only thing they can say. They’ve kept the truth from the others. Jesse’s decision. Unnecessary for any of the others to know, because it won’t change anything in the end. 

Gabriel Reyes will still be Reaper; Death looking for revenge and Overwatch heads to mount on a wall.

Genji nods and squeezes Jesse’s hand again, then lifts his arm to touch his fingers to Jesse’s cheek. The cowboy leans into the hand, eye closing into the comforting touch. Finds himself remembering the warehouse all over again.

“We save him.”


End file.
